I can't fucking wait for the new P.O.S. Album. I love Doomtree most because of the poetic intensity they bring to a genre that seems to be growing deader and more false by the minute.
A few of my friends, I have discovered, like me because I'm "spastic." some because they're hyper and insane, some because it simply amuses them. While I'm awfully glad I can be of service, if ever I exhibit that much outgoing energy, it's a lie. You must be a good liar if people appreciate the lie that much. Monika's birthday was lovely, but bars are weird and the vehemence of strangers more so.
I think sometimes people look for themselves in those they encounter, and those of us who perform as better mirrors will make them go all mothlike. A reflection of a thing isn't the thing itself, though, and I think the mirror people just want to see truth.
Today was beautiful. The air held such warmth and storm, and the wind was more forceful and energetic than anything I've felt in months.
A freak day.
The fun thing about copious amounts of alcohol in my presence is that I can be more honest. It doesn't loosen my dry tongue; it makes wet ears more receptive. So when someone asked me if it was whorish to find a random boy to make out with, I smiled and told her it wasn't at all. Just a little trampy, and she said she could deal with that.
Actually I quite liked her.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
urgh.
premise 1. sometimes, i presume. which, in case you've never noticed or never actually done it, is never a good thing to do. whether it's a fact or a position of stability, you will always, always end up looking stupid.
premise 2. i think i have stopped reading novels altogether. just nonfiction, poetry, and penny-dreadfuls that i return when i'm finished in two days anyway. which, i realize, is rather dishonest. lately, i have been. but does this mean that i have no creativity left? i don't make anything anymore, don't do anything. at all.....
premise 3. i know, beyond any shadow of doubt, that i have been too wrapped up in myself for months upon months to be a good friend.
premise 4. i do things like this. instead of trying to do something good, something positive, i swap between encouraging d. to a good first day back at school and writing about what a wretched person i am.
and so, it remains to be concluded that i need a swift kick in the ass, for i am becoming quite the fuckhead.
q.e.d.
really, woman, the least you could do is get up and make yourself feel a little better. or finish alphabetizing your books. ass.
premise 2. i think i have stopped reading novels altogether. just nonfiction, poetry, and penny-dreadfuls that i return when i'm finished in two days anyway. which, i realize, is rather dishonest. lately, i have been. but does this mean that i have no creativity left? i don't make anything anymore, don't do anything. at all.....
premise 3. i know, beyond any shadow of doubt, that i have been too wrapped up in myself for months upon months to be a good friend.
premise 4. i do things like this. instead of trying to do something good, something positive, i swap between encouraging d. to a good first day back at school and writing about what a wretched person i am.
and so, it remains to be concluded that i need a swift kick in the ass, for i am becoming quite the fuckhead.
q.e.d.
really, woman, the least you could do is get up and make yourself feel a little better. or finish alphabetizing your books. ass.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The wild-eyed boy from Freecloud
Today is David Bowie's birthday.
I woke up feeling the beginnings of a panic attack. The last strings of a dream were carrying over, and I felt like it was going to happen, or that it had already begun... like it was a portend, like I had no choice but to watch it come true.
doug and i had separated for some reason, some decision that i'd made had led us to be "friends" for a while. he was seeing someone else to keep himself from loneliness, and said he still loved me. i watched from the back of his basement as he and a dark-haired girl with glasses-- whom my pouting brain told me wasn't pretty at all, merely cute-- played and laughed. bennett walked away and ignored the whole thing, maybe depressed, maybe involved, maybe not caring. i was left alone, as though invisible, watching him fall in love with someone else. no one cared that i was there. i've never, ever felt that kind of pain, and it didn't stop when i woke up.
He told me over and over that it would never happen, that all of this was impossible, that my brain was just punishing me the way it always does. He even tried to re-interpret the dream by saying that the dark-haired girl was me, a person that I could be if I tried. It took about an hour, but eventually I started breathing normally again and remembered what was real.
It feels a little stupid to be so upset by this, but everything was so... exact. I wandered away the way I wander when I'm so upset I can't think, and while it was clearly unrealistic that I walked in on a guest lecture being delivered by Norah Jones, I still feel that terror of the beginning of the end. I remember how much it hurt.
I stil hurt, and all I want to do is hide.
I woke up feeling the beginnings of a panic attack. The last strings of a dream were carrying over, and I felt like it was going to happen, or that it had already begun... like it was a portend, like I had no choice but to watch it come true.
doug and i had separated for some reason, some decision that i'd made had led us to be "friends" for a while. he was seeing someone else to keep himself from loneliness, and said he still loved me. i watched from the back of his basement as he and a dark-haired girl with glasses-- whom my pouting brain told me wasn't pretty at all, merely cute-- played and laughed. bennett walked away and ignored the whole thing, maybe depressed, maybe involved, maybe not caring. i was left alone, as though invisible, watching him fall in love with someone else. no one cared that i was there. i've never, ever felt that kind of pain, and it didn't stop when i woke up.
He told me over and over that it would never happen, that all of this was impossible, that my brain was just punishing me the way it always does. He even tried to re-interpret the dream by saying that the dark-haired girl was me, a person that I could be if I tried. It took about an hour, but eventually I started breathing normally again and remembered what was real.
It feels a little stupid to be so upset by this, but everything was so... exact. I wandered away the way I wander when I'm so upset I can't think, and while it was clearly unrealistic that I walked in on a guest lecture being delivered by Norah Jones, I still feel that terror of the beginning of the end. I remember how much it hurt.
I stil hurt, and all I want to do is hide.
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